


The Pile of Years is not so high

by middlemarch



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Childhood Memories, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Marriage, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8257252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: Demelza wants to learn more about her husband.





	

“What was he like, Ross, when he were a boy, Verity?”

They were comfortable in the sitting room of Nampara, she and Verity. Demelza liked Ross’s cousin for so many reasons, not least of which was that from the moment of the marriage, she’d treated Demelza as the lady of the house as if she’d been born and bred to it, instead of the former scullery maid who brought as dowry a dog of unknown provenance, barely enough rags to clothe her small person, and her own two hands, ready to work at any task put before her. She still was, though she took a different pleasure in keeping the house, now that it was her own, a fact she could barely believe when she woke in the night, faced with Ross’s broad back or his shadowed face, his dark curls tousled. That he were her own husband (and never did she think of him as her man, as Jinny would have said, he were too much a gentleman for that) was only less startling for the grounding of the bodily pleasure he took with her daily; her flesh didn’t let her think on it too long without a reminder of how he’d felt, how he’d looked in the pale light of dawn, his hands making a second skin for her, much finer than what she’d had before. 

She knew he didn’t love her and hardly expected him to, but he seemed as fond as exasperated these days and satisfied that she came to his bed without any hint that it was a duty and not a joy. She hadn’t been able to help the sounds she made as he touched her and he’d lifted his mouth from her lips, her breast, her belly, again and again, to give her a bemused smile when he heard her; later, when they coupled, he’d murmur in her ear he liked to hear her say his name, that she cried out for him, that it was the prettiest sound she made, sweeter than any song. He had a different smile for her then, one she liked to think had only ever been given to her, his unexpected wife whom he’d married to save them the burden of sin, the tedium of the gentry’s gossip, whom he’d found could please him and whose approval he had begun to seek himself, almost despite himself.

Ross fascinated her, but not like the supple cobra the gipsies brought with them in a rush basket. He was steady until he was not, honorable until he was not, melancholic and lively, with the sharpest wit, the gentlest hand he’d lay on Jinny Martin’s baby son while the baby blinked up at him, a great belief in his own abilities and an equal fear, that he carried with him like a shadow, that paced him like Garrick did on their rambles, that he was wrong, on the brink of failure and would drag them all down with him. He was not closed off from her but he didn’t imagine very much about what she thought, seemed genuinely, pleasantly surprised every day that she had new plans for Nampara or opinions about Jud, the best net for the seining, the airing of the linens. 

Kind, thoughtful Verity was a rare friend, corrective without being cruel, humble while she humbled Demelza, with small eyes that did not do her soul justice. And she’d known Ross since they were children, was a rich source of memories and stories of what he’d once been, what Demelza found he still could be. She’d tried asking Prudie and Jud, but the old man had snored and nearly choked before he’d gotten out “Master were a fine lad and a scoundrel, now leave off,” and Prudie had recited her daily litany of complaints about the running of the house, her husband and all God had in store for her, before she’d said “Oh! He were a very devilish terror and no doubt, he wore out his father’s arm! And always after a sweet, that one, he’d a taste for ‘em, fierce appetites ye see.” This had not painted a very vivid picture and Demelza had resolved to ask Verity after their next lesson in being a lady, which had including dancing the gavotte and minuet, playing the spinet, and reading, first the Bible and now whatever she wished to try in the library. She’d liked it all, though being able to open a book and make out something besides a sea-worm’s trail in ink was the greatest satisfaction; she concealed it from Ross as best she could, not wanting him to fully realize she’d been so lacking, illiterate, not willing to risk him closing the library door to her, though Verity had said he wouldn’t mind. And Verity had not seemed troubled at all when Demelza asked about Ross; she’d beamed at Demelza when she heard the question and settled herself back in her armchair, as if she were about to embark on telling a wonderful tale.

“Oh, Ross! He was… he was quite the general favorite. Not only at Nampara but also Trenwith and the village. You couldn’t see him but to wish to join him in whatever adventure he’d planned. He and Francis…well, they roved the fields and the shore, climbed every tree, raided every bush for berries. He was very sweet and often brought back a little posy for my mother or his, even to Aunt Agatha, though she sniffed at him. He was the quickest, the most daring, and how he joked, he could make a stone shout with laughter it seemed,” she said, the words flowing from her easily, the happiness in the remembrance and the juxtaposition with their situation, in Ross’s sitting room, that young boy now master but not so very changed.

“Did no one ever curb him?” Demelza asked, wondering if that could account for Ross’s boldness, his conviction that he could turn the world to his purpose in every way.

“I think his father would say he wore out his belt and a basket of switches on Ross’s backside! They were much alike, you never had to guess what Uncle Joshua meant—he was even louder than Ross has ever been. And his mother, she was tender-hearted but she had a temper too. Nampara has ever rung with voices, raised loud as the sea in a storm. But it was hard for anyone to stay angry at Ross—he repented so prettily and then went on to do what he pleased, right away,” Verity added.

“Then he hasn’t changed much, I’d wager,” Demelza remarked. 

Would she have a son one day with his father’s dark eyes and curls, running about and causing trouble, smiling and breaking every heart in sight? Would Ross be a strict father, free with the switch, or doting, leaving her to be the scold? She could remember little else of her own mother but a rough voice and a rougher hand, save for a few memories of being ill and coddled a bit, her pallet laid closer to the hearth, and she thought she didn’t wish for that with her own children, Ross’s children.

“Does he do as he pleases then? With you, Demelza?” Verity asked cautiously. She were the lady but Demelza were the wife and Demelza the one who knew the breadth of what Verity meant without the other woman saying as much.

“Yes. He pleases himself—but he’s never pleased less he’s seen to everyone else. It seems to me, he may be a hard man, but I’ve never seen him cruel and I’ve seen him kinder than I’d thought gentry could be,” she replied, trying to set her friend at ease.

“He’s kind to you, then? Not just as he is to his neighbors? I would like to think so, would like to think he treats you as he ought,” Verity offered. She was as much as gift as Ross, both so unexpected in their concern, the degree of it and the duration, every dimension more than Demelza had known before from anyone but dumb Garrick.

“Oh, yes, he’s kind. How he ought to treat me, only he can say, and the Lord, I guess, but I’ve no complaints. Wishes mayhap, but no complaints. I hadn’t asked you because he treats me badly,” Demelza said.

“Then, why, my dear? What makes you so curious?”

“God, I suppose, made my nature so…but he’s such a puzzle, isn’t he, Ross Poldark of Nampara, my husband and the finest man in the county? How comes he to be both and his Majesty’s officer beforehand, master of Jud and Prudie, friend to Mrs. Zacky? I cannot make him out,” she explained.

“This is only my conjecture, since I an unmarried and you are a wife, but perhaps that is the work of the marriage? To understand each other…and offer necessary consolation? To abridge your mutual loneliness?” Verity said. 

Demelza heard her longing and also the wisdom. She wished her friend’s heart unbroken, appreciated and treasured. But she also wished Wheal Leisure as thickly woven through with copper as her own curls and Ross to call her _dearest girl_ when he reached for her, when he laid his head upon her breast. Wishes were fine things and Demelza Carne was used to fine things being set aside for other people but never herself.

“That is possible. I’d rather though it was to do what I could, however I could, to be a help, to give him whatever I can. He doesn’t ask for very much, not in words, but he needs just as much as any man, maybe more, since he’s better’n most,” Demelza said. 

She wondered at the smile playing on Verity’s little pink rosebud mouth, till she felt Ross’s hand warm on her shoulder. She craned her neck to look at him and blushed when she saw how he looked at her; he was appraising and frank and there was something of the night about him, something he hungered for but this time she thought it was not just her body.

“I fear I interrupt, but it grows late. Verity, shall you stay for supper then?” Ross asked and it sounded as if he wouldn’t mind a guest at his table, but his cousin fluttered her hands and shook out her skirts, all the signs Demelza had learned meant Verity would leave.

“No, no. Aunt Agatha and all the rest at Trenwith, they expect me. The light is still strong, if I leave now, I’ll be home without any trouble about being late. Ross, you must just stay here and be idle at bit with your wife,” Verity said, purposefully vague about Elizabeth and Francis, shockingly bold, Demelza thought, when it came to the household at Nampara.

“Idle with Demelza—what a brilliant idea, Verity. They should listen to you at Trenwith as I do at Nampara, it would do them a world of good,” Ross said, sitting down right beside his wife, so his strong thigh pressed against hers with only his breeches and her skirts between them, hardly any barrier to his quick, skillful hands, Demelza had learned. She gave him a scandalized look and he laughed, slipped an arm around her waist to draw her closer and Verity smiled at them both.

“Good-night, Ross. Demelza. I may call again soon, if you’ll have me,” she said.

“Of course, Verity, you’re always welcome at Nampara,” Ross said, before Demelza could utter a word. 

She nodded to her friend and saw the glint in Verity’s eye as she walked sedately from the room, a pace Demelza had yet to master. She was distracted from her realization of yet another shortcoming by Ross’s lips at her neck, the tickle of his beard, rough at the end of the day, and his hand, tightening at her waist, dropping to her hip.

“‘Better’n most?’ But not best? Shall I guess at what I have left undone…or shall you instruct me, madam?” he murmured playfully.

“ Twill be greater fun for you to guess… you wrinkle up your face when you figure out you’re wrong about somethin’ and I do greatly enjoy it,” she said, sure to be spritely and blithe, as she knew he liked her. Perhaps, sometime, she might reveal more of herself, perhaps sometime he might wish for that.

“Well, that is a goodly goal for a husband, isn’t it? His wife’s enjoyment? If I am to be the best of men, I should begin my work in that regard…you look more yielding than Wheal Leisure,” he said and she let herself enjoy his mouth on her, his hands stroking her sides, grazing her breasts.

“If you don’t stop with that, you’ll get no pudding tonight…and I’ve made a lemon custard, the one you like, and there’s fresh cream,” she said, using her new knowledge of his tastes to dissuade him from tumbling her in their sitting room. ‘Twere for Prudie’s sake she made the choice, she told herself, and not her own.

“Mmm. What bounty! Still, I expect custard will not keep as well as this,” he said, caressing her breast more boldly, making her gasp. “Yes, let us have our supper and the pudding and then you may tell me about your afternoon, every secret Verity revealed today. Are you an expert in the cotillion, now? For it seems you have mastered the country dance quite, quite easily,” he finished. His dark eyes shone, all clever amusement and easy lust. She wished to see something else, but she was willing to be satisfied. 

“Not as well as you, perhaps. From what Verity has said. Or will you challenge her name?” Demelza replied. He laughed again, pleased as she’d intended him to be, and slapped his hand against his thigh.

“No, madam. I will not. Ross Poldark gives way,” he said and oh! how she wished it were true. 

She must have sighed a little then, for he took her hand in his and said, “My dear?” and she felt such a tide of feeling to hear it, looked away lest he see how she was moved. She’d never had even the smallest wish come true before and Demelza found she liked it, very much.

**Author's Note:**

> Who doesn't want some stories of Ross's youthful escapades? And with a healthy dollop of girls being friends? I couldn't find a name for Ross's father so forgive me if it exists in the books. I also borrowed Shakespeare's joke about "country pleasures," but Ross seems like the kind of guy to steal whatever quotation he wants. The title of this story is from Emily Dickinson.


End file.
